


Little Blue Rose

by Arya_Silvertongue



Series: Gospel of the North [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya-centric, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Multiple Points-of-View, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Silvertongue/pseuds/Arya_Silvertongue
Summary: As they wait for spring, the victors of what people are now calling the Second War for the Dawn realize that sometimes, winter is not always just about the snow.





	1. The Sun and the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wants nothing more than for her sister to return and ruin everything again.

Nobody ever told Sansa that victory can be so…quiet.

For that is how Winterfell has become, mere days after their great triumph over the dead. A land of ghosts.

The girl who was once called Alayne Stone spends her mornings around the castle, tending to the remaining wounded. She nurses the others back to good health, and spares a prayer or two for those who never make it. She may not believe in the gods as much as she did when she was younger, but their names can still be a comfort to a man about to join them.

It is an arduous task, one she is not accustomed to. Still, she dedicates herself to her chosen duty. With the other women, she can be useful. Her small and steady hands, so perfect for needlework, are the best at stitching flesh together. She can fold and stack cloth faster than any maiden from north _and_ south of the Neck, and her voice, once praised for songs and poetry, is now the last thing countless dying men will hear, wildlings and Dothraki alike.

It humbles her, this task. And if as a result, it keeps her away from certain people, from conversations she may never be prepared for, it is only by chance. The bright, red hair and pale skin that used to set her apart, now allow her to blend in, to go unnoticed.

Her home is now nothing but blood and snow, after all.

“Umm…m’lady?”

Sansa was on her way back from Winter Town when two children stop her by the gate. When she first sees them, her breath catches and for a moment, she wonders if her brother’s visions are always so painful. If being confronted by the ghosts of your past means losing air and sense all at once.

When she looks down, she sees two girls. One has short, dark hair, with leaves sticking out of tangled strands. Her grin is mischievous, and her bright eyes are alight with glee. Next to her is another, taller child, with hair as bright as flames, styled into two braids that fall on each of her shoulders. Her chin is raised, and her lips are curled in a manner that is just a breath away from a proper sneer.

There’s an ache where her heart should be, but Sansa finds it difficult to look away.

“Lady?”

Only she blinks, and the memory is taken from her.

“You are, right?” the taller girl asks. She has blonde hair. “You a Lady?”

Sansa stops mid-breath, and considers the question.

Her father and mother had been lord and lady, and she was once promised to a prince. One true-born brother was crowned king, and another, baseborn, after him. Now, another brother wears the crown, and a cousin is heir to a southern throne.

_And my sister is the savior of the world._

“I am,” she tells them, blinking through unshed tears. She has become rather good at it, these past few years.

When she looks down again, she is able to regard her tiny intruders properly. She sees the way they push at each other, and how the older one quietly sorts her thoughts. Sansa finds she approves. It is always best to be very sure of your words before you speak them.

It is one of the things she learned from Petyr.

“Oh, all _right_!” the one with brown hair and brown eyes exclaims. Sansa is now sure they are sisters; they have the same nose. The younger one makes no attempt to hide her annoyance, and it is an achingly familiar sight.

Sansa braces herself for a question about the dragons, or perhaps about the war. She has grown used to queries about how long the winter will last, or if she has any bread to spare. Either way, she is just beginning to conjure the voice she often uses to spin tales suited for curious little girls when she hears the child continue.

“Is she awake already?”

It seems curious little girls are still the best at surprising her, even after all these years.

_Arya? Is that really you?_

“…What?” Sansa whispers, suddenly lost.

“The prince’s sister,” the blonde supplies, her voice softer but no less eager. “The Sleeping Wolf? Is she awake yet?”

Before she can stop it, Sansa’s mind goes to a wreath of blue, winter roses, hung on one of the doors in the great keep. She passes by it every morning, every day. Sometimes, when she feels particularly brave, she will even run her finger against the petals, and let herself remember.

_Arya, wait!_

“Oy!” shouts the shorter girl who asked her first. “She ain't no sleeping wolf, she’s the _Night_ Wolf! I heard ‘em call her it.”

“She is, too! Elrick said so!”

“And you _believed_ ‘im?”

Sansa is finding it harder and harder to breath. Before her silence dooms her, however, a deep voice cuts across the cold, winter air.

“Don’t you two have better things to do than bother the lady?”

Jaime Lannister waltzes out of the east gate, a golden hand on top of a sword at his hip. Sansa briefly notices that one of the fingernails is missing, no doubt another casualty of the war.

“Well?” he repeats, giving the little girls a flat look. It’s enough to scare them, and soon, the two are running back to the town.

“What?” Jaime turns to her, an impressive display of mock confusion playing on his face. “Was it something I said?”

Sansa can’t help but roll her eyes. “Was that really necessary?”

“My lady,” Confusion shifts to offense with ease, “how else can I be the kingslayer if I can’t scare little children?”

“Was that what you came out here to do, then? Scare little children?”

In an instant, the older man's comely face changes and his eyes drop to the ground. Before she can help herself, Sansa’s back straightens.

“Is it—? Is she—”

As soon as her broken words start to make sense, Jaime stiffens, looking just as startled. “Wha—? Oh, _no_. No! It’s not— I’m sorry, it’s not…” He raises his good hand, an attempt perhaps to calm her down. It proves pointless, as Sansa’s heart is already racing. “Sansa, it’s not... I’m sorry.” He takes a step to touch her arm, but something on her face stops him. “Nothing’s changed. She…they told me she’s still—”

“Right,” she says, cutting him off. “Of course. No need to apologize. It’s entirely my fault.” Sansa wills her breathing to even out. It will not do her any good if she breaks now.

 _Steel_ , she reminds herself. _I am steel._

“What was it you came here for, then?”

Jaime holds her gaze, and when the moment passes, he nods. Another thing she owes him, it would seem.

“Brienne told me the hour you’ll be arriving. I was… I was just hoping to escort you back.”

His words fall flat, but Sansa pays it no mind. She isn’t the only one with people to avoid, after all.

“Well thank you, Ser Jaime,” she tells him, dipping in a curtsy. She watches him shake his head in mirth, though whether it’s for the display of courtly manners or for her continuous resolve to address him like a proper knight, Sansa isn’t sure. “But I assure you, I was not in any danger.”

"I'm sure." The former knight of the kingsguard nods, and offers her his left arm. “Shall we, then?”

As she takes his arm, Sansa chances a glance at the people around them. It would not be the first time that passersby openly stare with awe, confusion, and even disgust at the sight of Ned Stark’s traitor daughter and Tywin Lannister’s golden kingslayer.

_I am steel._

What she sees instead is a lone figure atop the ruins of a turret near the great keep. With long, silver hair and a thick winter coat that resemble scales in the right light, it is difficult to mistake the dragon queen for anyone else. In her tower, Daenerys Targaryen is as lonely as she is lovely.

_Did she…did she say something about me?_

When Sansa first met her, she felt nothing but distrust for the Breaker of Chains. Sansa knows when someone is hiding something from her, and Daenerys, from the first moment her haunting purple eyes met hers, had been in possession of a secret she had no right to keep. Sansa knew it in her bones.

In the end, it was a secret she had to thank the queen for.

_Is that really you?_

It doesn’t take long before they see Brienne, waiting for them in the middle of the courtyard. Watching her without Podrick still brings a small ache to Sansa’s chest, but she brushes it right away.

“What took you lot so long?” Brienne exclaims, prompting a practiced eye roll from Jaime. The gesture does not escape the Maid of Tarth. “And _you_. Didn’t I tell you to be quick about it? I told you to be quick about it. If I remember correctly, the bloody gate isn’t miles away.”

“And your memory is as sharp as always, my dear.”

What would have flustered Brienne not so long ago, only serves to raise her hackles. Sansa then spends the next minute suppressing a sigh at the familiar banter of the pair. It reminds her of another time, another life. In it, beneath the gathering dusk, two knights and a squire whisked her out of her tower.

“It is almost supper, my lady.” Brienne’s light touch on her elbow brings Sansa back to the present. “Would you wish to eat with your brothers?”

Sansa suppresses a grimace at Brienne’s stubborn nature. The lady knight knows the answer to this question, has received it countless times, but still she asks.

“I’d take them in my chambers, my friend. Same as always.” She hopes her gentle reminder will dissuade the two them from whatever plans they may have, although Sansa knows better. Still, she takes it as a victory when they both simply nod. “Do tell Rickon I’ll be expecting him at the library, first thing tomorrow.”

_Where have you been all this time?_

She is exhausted by the time she finishes eating. The fire in the hearth is a comfort after an entire day outside the walls, and she wants nothing more than to bury herself in furs and sleep for days.

But Sansa would sooner offer her right arm to the frost than miss another night. She almost did, once, and what a night that had been.

“My Lady?”

She hears the sound of the door opening, and when she looks up, she is not surprised to see Jeyne. She is wearing a brown cloak, and her scars have started to fade, but Sansa can still see how much her old friend has changed.

“I have the threads you asked for,” Jeyne says, arms full of fabric. The sight succeeds in extinguishing the weariness Sansa has been feeling, and she gets up from her bed with a little more enthusiasm.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach their destination, and Sansa spends a long moment looking at the flowers on the door. They always manage to be fresh, every single time she sees them.

“Should we…?” Jeyne starts to fidget when the door remains closed. Sansa shakes her head and, after a brief moment of hesitation, carefully shifts a foot to the right. Her shoe makes the softest of sounds, and soon enough, the door with the winter roses is thrown open.

“Sansa.”

Jon looks tired, and broken in a way he only seems to look like in this particular hour of the night. The light from the torch in the hallway dances across the scars on his face, but they fail to chase away the shadows in his eyes.

“Your Grace,” Jeyne greets him, managing a small curtsy. And like every single night, Jon nods but does not look at her.

After a moment, the prince steps aside to let them in. As Sansa crosses the threshold, a strong wave of emotion grips her heart and she does something she has never done in all the times they've repeated this encounter. She speaks.

“How is she?”

The question surprises both Jon and herself, and judging by the soft gasp behind her, Jeyne as well.

For a moment, Sansa fears she has shattered an unspoken rule between her and her cousin. They share this pain, but they never speak of it. At least, not in so many words. She has met with Sam and the maesters countless times, spoken to all the healers she has worked with, but a part of her still believes that when it comes to her sister, there are some things only Jon will know. 

“My Lady…” Jeyne whispers, a feeble and uncertain attempt to save the moment before Sansa regrets her actions.

After what seems like an eternity, Jon speaks.

"I don't know."

His voice comes out as little more than a whisper, but Sansa hears it just the same.

“They keep on telling me the same thing. Over and over again. No fever, no poison. _Nothing_.” When their eyes meet, Sansa almost weeps. “She just won’t wake.”

His sad, grey eyes are the last thing Sansa sees before the man who was once her bastard, half-brother bows and disappears into the darkened hall.

“Sansa?”

There’s a firm hand on her arm, and Sansa almost jumps when she realizes it’s Jeyne’s. When she looks up, she sees a small smile on her friend’s once beautiful face.

“We best get inside or we’ll let the cold in.”

_Arya?_

Sansa had been looking for Rickon, when the dead finally reached Winterfell. She had been struggling to move past a sea of bodies when the wights came, and when Sansa thought the gods had finally come to take her borrowed life, a beautiful stranger pulled her out of the fray.

A stranger with grey eyes.

 _Arya?_ she asked, struggling to be heard over the sounds of fighting. _Is that really you?_

The woman was taller, towering half a head above her. There were many other things, things that screamed _wrong_ and _changed_ and _different_ , but Sansa knew it was her sister. It was Arya.

 _Rickon’s inside_ , the stranger said, leading her to the crypts. _You’ll be safe here._

 _Arya, wait!_ Sansa held on to her arm, almost sobbing as she did. It was all happening too fast, just like the last time. It felt like her sister was being ripped from her all over again. _Where have you been all this time?_

Instead of answering, Arya held her tight and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. A moment later, the doors were closing.

“Will you be all right?”

After depositing the bundles of cloth and the box of threads on Sansa's lap, Jeyne takes a moment to watch the woman on the bed, just like she does every single night.

 _Do you want her to wake up?_ she once asked Sansa, after a particularly diffiult night. It was an innocent query, devoid of any malice their younger selves would have been filled with, but the words stayed to haunt Sansa still.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells Jeyne, following her old friend's gaze.

In her sleeping form, Arya Stark is peaceful, and safe. What little she knows about what her sister has gone through makes her current situation a mercy, for some. What she's done for the rest of them should be more than enough for her to earn her rest.

But Sansa _wants_ her sister to wake up. Only with Arya awake can she find her chance for redemption.

“Have a good night, Sansa.”

Like the previous night, and the one before that, Jeyne does not wait for a response before she leaves.

When the Others fell and Sansa found herself running to the godswood, the first thing she saw was Daenerys Targaryen weeping on her knees. Her chest ached at the sight of the queen’s soft cries, and it’s the reason it took her a moment to see figures beneath the heart tree, why she was a moment too late to realize that it was her sister Arya who was lying lifeless in the arms of Jon Snow.

_Did she say something about me?_

“Snow has reached Oldtown,” she starts, letting her hands work their way on a particularly lovely Myrish silk. “Can you believe that? Snow in the south in a long time. Do you reckon it’ll reach all the way to Dorne? That would be something.”

She does not have a thread that matches the exact shade of the fabric, but the darkest red she has will have to do.

“Have you been to Myr, sister?” The light from the flames follow the movement of her hands, creating shadows all over the room as Sansa worked on her stitches. “Daenerys said you’ve travelled to the Free Cities. Oh, I bet Myr was beautiful.”

 _They said my sister came with you_ , she once asked the Targaryen queen. It was the first morning of burning the dead. 

“Would you take me there someday? Perhaps not now, but when the spring comes.” She looks out the window, into the night. She wonders if Nymeria and her pack are outside, in the snow. There is no moon, and it makes the evening seem without light and the winter without end. “Yes. I think I’d like that very much.”

_Did Arya speak to you about her family? Did she say something about me?_

Daenerys Targaryen was grieving, Sansa could tell. They all were, but the sorrow in her purple eyes reflected something Sansa saw in herself. It was grief for a loss one has yet to accept.

For a moment, she wondered what her sister was to the strange, foreign queen, and just how a fugitive Stark managed to cross paths with an exiled Targaryen.

 _She has forgiven you, my lady._ The smile on Daenerys Targaryen’s face was soft and sad, and Sansa remembered her little sister, who ran, and played, and loved like it was all she was born to do. _She’s forgiven you a long time ago._

Sansa watches her sister, frozen save for the telltale signs of soft breathing, and wonders if this is what victory feels like.

_She just wanted to come home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title was taken from the classic fairy tale Little Briar Rose.


	2. A Baseborn Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot Pie has often wondered what his last meal would be.

_fish stew and black bread with ale_

Sometimes, Hot Pie thinks he can’t be further away from the little games the princes and lordlings of great houses love to play.

After his first fortnight working in the inn, he starts to forget what it felt like having people chase him all the time. He might’ve missed his friends harder than he hoped the first few days, but work kept his thoughts elsewhere. He is safe, and that should be enough.

He makes a habit of rising just after dawn, about half an hour before Sharna’s snores stop and her husband shivers himself awake. Before the snow came, he even takes a stroll to the little garden out back, to pick some berries he’ll use for the day’s pies. His mistress can’t grow no shrub if her coin depended on it, but Hot Pie learned shortly after he decided to stay that in the riverlands, some plants need only little tending to, and they’ll yield some good fruits and spice.

Other mornings, though, when they don’t have much guests, he will sit by the frozen riverbank, and think of home.

It’s been a long time since Hot Pie’s first taste of winter, and he’s since gotten used to making hot meals, meeting cold men, and sleeping in a colder bed. Work in the inn is a far cry from his life in the Bottom, but winter means more patrons seeking shelter in the inn, and more patrons means more coin.

There was a time when he had a mother and a cart, another when he had a horse and two friends, but those days feel like lifetimes ago. He was always scared in then, always hungry. By the dock, however, he can smell clean air, and be certain there is ale and warm bread waiting for him.

“Boy!”

It’s been a whole morning without a single person to come in the inn, but Hot Pie doesn’t immediately feel any need to worry.

He should’ve known better.

“Sharna?”

That morning, Hot Pie woke up and war was the last thing on his mind. It isn’t until his mistress comes bursting through the door, bloody and beaten and without Husband, that Hot Pie realizes the war has yet to truly begin.

“Run,” Sharna repeats, when she is certain she has his gaze. “ _Run!_ ”

With nothing but the tunic on his back, Hot Pie goes for the back door and has barely enough time to see the arbor burning against the cold air before he is once again running for his life.

_frozen bugs and blackberries_

He has stopped counting the days the second time he passed out from cold and hunger, only to be woken by a lost horse.

Most of the time, he just lets the mare take him wherever it pleases. Hot Pie can’t tell east from west or dirt from a large chunk of ice, and he knows if the two of them can ever hope to find food, he will have to let the animal lead them.

_You will come back, won’t you? When the war’s done?_

Arry used to call him stupid, sometimes for true when she was mad. Hot Pie knows he hurt her, when he decided to stay. But highborn ladies can’t have baseborn kin; he saw it in Gendry’s eyes when the man named Harwin knelt before the girl. He wishes he’s with them again. But even if the war ended, they’ll have no inn to return to and they’ll likely never know what happened to the baker boy they once called friend.

“What is it, girl?”

He is wrenched from hazy dreams of his mother when his horse stops, almost knocking him off the saddle. When he looks out, he sees a glimpse of a tower just behind the trees. Once, the sight of it might have scared him, but the possibility of shelter for the first time in a long while is too hard to resist, even for Hot Pie.

Up close, he sees that almost half of the tower is gone, and the rest of the town is buried in deep snow. Before Hot Pie can look around, however, voices near what looked like a sept stop him in his tracks.

“Stay down, boy!”

There’s a blur of steel and leather before Hot Pie finds himself face-down on the snow, something heavy on top of him.

“Wha-”

“ _Quiet!”_

Struggling to catch his breath, Hot Pie still manages to look up again, and the voices become louder.

“…pay for you sins. What are your last words?”

Hot Pie knows that voice. He _knows_ that he knows that voice.

_The Hand’s daughter. Arya Stark._

“…Harwin? It’s Har- ow!”

“I said _quiet!_ Do you wish to die, boy?”

It takes forever before the man lets Hot Pie go, and when he does, he runs to where he heard the voices. Instead of the men who took Arry, what he finds instead are a dozen hanged people, and the distinct smell of burning flesh. The horror he knows is in his own face, Hot Pie finds reflected in the old man who followed him.

“They say it’s justice,” the man whispers. “This isn’t justice.”

That is the day Hot Pie meets the Blackfish of Riverrun.

_salt beef and hard cheese_

It doesn’t take long for Hot Pie to find out that the old knight who saved him is called Brynden Tully. He remembers Arry telling him her own mother had been a Tully, and her grandfather was the high lord of Riverrun. Still, Hot Pie keeps it close to his chest. He might die soon, but he’ll make sure he won’t die betraying Arry to anyone who may wish her arm. It had been so long, but Arry was his friend.

“Is _Hot Pie_ really your name? For true?”

The question comes from one of the younger men with them, a boy who couldn’t be older than Hot Pie himself.

The Blackfish knight has taken him to an abandoned holdfast where two dozen other people had been taking shelter. They have fire and food, and Hot Pie nearly fainted at the sight of stale bread.

“Yes, m’lord,” he tells the man, who is supposed to be a Dornish noble from the south. Hot Pie does not remember whether Dornishmen are supposed to have purple-blue eyes and hair the color of pure ash, but he doesn’t dare ask. “It’s the only one I remember.”

On his fourth night, Hot Pie finds Blackfish near the fire, the only other one awake. Against his fear and reason, he approaches the old knight. If he is truly Arry’s kin, he can’t be all that bad.

“Ser?”

For a long moment, Blackfish doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Ser?”

The man huffs. “I heard you the first time, boy.”

Hot Pie swallows. Everything in him is screaming to return to his corner, but he finds he is too tired and too cold to be scared.

“I meant to ask you something, only I don’t know how.”

He is once again met with silence, only this time Hot Pie knows it's meant he is to continue.

“What we saw. In the town, I mean. The people they hanged. Who did that?”

It was Harwin. Hot Pie knows it in his bones. Harwin, and maybe Lem. And Gendry and Arry, too. But his friends would never hang anyone, especially not children.

“Outlaws,” Blackfish finally says, after a long moment. “Led by a woman they call Stoneheart.”

There is grief in the old knight’s voice.

“Did you know them?”

“The woman,” he whispers, eyes never leaving the flames. “She was once my niece.”

Hot Pie feels the doubt in his heart flickering out.

“Ser. I have something to tell you.”

_a flagon of mead_

“Are you sure you really won’t come with us?”

Truth be told, a chance to see Dorne is a great thing and Hot Pie aches with yearning, but he has made his choice, and he knows Brynden Tully sees it.

“It might not be true, boy. The smallfolk love their gossip, after all.”

It’s been almost three turns of the moon since word reached their group that House Stark has retaken Winterfell. They had been on their way South, to deliver Lord Edric, and to find a proper home for the long winter that has yet to come. Hot Pie, who has journeyed with them for almost a year now, had decided to turn around and make his way north.

“Everyone is going south, lad. You said yourself you can bake for the Daynes. Why go someplace you’ve never been before?”

Hot Pie knows Blackfish still had not wanted to believe the news to be true. He sees it in the knight’s eyes, the reluctance to believe any of his family still lives.

“I left her once, ser. I don’t want to die without giving myself a chance to make it right.”

Brynden stills, before giving his shoulder a hard squeeze and nodding.

“I’m glad my grandniece has friends the likes of you,” the knight tells him. “Perhaps someday, when I get Ned and these people home, I might make it for the North as well.”

Hot Pie beams. “I’ll wait for you there, then. Might we can be miserable in the cold together, and have Arry make fun of us for it.”

_hardbread and black sausages_

The fire was a mistake, Hot Pie realizes far too late.

The raiders leave him with half a sausage and three broken bones. Unable to stand and see just how bad they’ve beaten him, all Hot Pie can do is watch the dying embers as he lets the darkness swallow him whole.

When he comes back to the world of the living, the first thing he hears is the sound of a wolf howling. For the first time in a long time, Hot Pie is unafraid.

_Arry?_

There’s another, deeper howl, answered by so many others that for a moment, Hot Pie thinks he has died and has gone to one of the seven heavens, whichever one dead wolves go to rest.

The music of the moon and the peace in his heart remain until he slips again into a deep sleep. This time, he dreams of his friends.

_a bowl of pea soup_

While the Red Keep was bloody, and looming, and powerful, Winterfell is old and strong. Like it has stood for a thousand years, and will remain standing for a thousand more.

Hot Pie stops his horse when he sees it, just to give it a proper look. It seems ancient and mythical, but welcoming in a way other castles he’s seen had not been.

It feels like a proper home.

It’s only been days since word of the White Walkers’ defeat reached the rest of the realm, and to hear the champion be his own friend made Hot Pie ride as fast as he has ever ridden. The cold had been unforgiving, and the north as unyielding as the first northern girl he’s ever met, but he has reached the gate all the same.

“The crates from White Harbor will be at the courtyard,” says the kitchen maid. “They need to be here before sundown.”

As most of the people had been occupied with what was left of the war, it was not difficult for Hot Pie to find his place in the kitchens, and find the hero of the seven kingdoms who had once been called Arry.

“What do you wish to do with that?”

Hot Pie nearly jumps at the voice, and he feels himself go pale when he realizes who just entered the garden.

“M- m’lord.”

Rickon Stark closes the gap between them and lifts a gloved hand to point at the roses Hot Pie is holding.

“Those are winter roses, aren’t they?”

Hot Pie can do nothing but nod, thanking all seven gods and the old gods of the North that the young lord doesn’t seem to have his direwolf with him.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? They only grow here in the north, and only in certain places. They say no other flower is as beautiful and as rare.” His voice grows wistful, and when he realizes this, he gives Hot Pie a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Just something someone told me.”

Hot Pie looks at the bundle in his hands. They _are_ incredibly beautiful, and even though he comes to the garden every day to pick some, they still never fail to fascinate him.

“Someone clever, I’m sure.”

To his surprise, Rickon rolls his eyes and, despite the difference in colouring, the expression reminds Hot Pie of his elder sister. “Oh yes. Tyrion is all sorts of clever. Sometimes too much for his own good.”

Hot Pie stifles a chuckle before he can forget himself, and promptly excuses himself before the lord can remember he hasn’t yet answered his question. However, before he can fully leave the garden, Rickon calls out to him one last time.

“Thank you,” he tells Hot Pie. “I don’t know much about my sister, but I can tell she likes them.”

_half an apple tart_

The morning after Daenerys Targaryen leaves for King’s Landing, Hot Pie finds Rickon Stark just outside the kitchen.

“M’lord?”

Shaggydog is lying by his feet, and it’s a testament to how tired Hot Pie is when he walks towards them without hesitating.

“Have you replaced the flowers yet?” Rickon asks. Startled at the query, Hot Pie can only nod. “Good.”

“Is there…is there something wrong?”

It had only been less than an hour since he dropped by Arya’s door, and the maester he asked told him nothing much has changed.

Rickon’s shoulders drop, and the wolf whines under his fidgeting hand.

“The dragon queen weeps for my sister. As does Jon, and Bran, and Sansa. Tyrion hides it well, but I can tell he cares for her too. Half the people in this castle have their own stories and memories with the Night Wolf or the Stark Rose or whatever it is they call her and I…" There is a storm of emotions in his bright, blue eyes, and he mutters something in an different, rougher tongue. Hot Pie then wonders if all Starks are to be so burdened by all the gods they choose to worship. " _I_ don’t. I barely remember her. I’ve got absolutely nothing to say. What kind of brother does that make me?”

He watches the lordling for a long moment, before reaching into the pocket of his apron.

“What is it?” Rickon asks, staring at the piece of cloth in his outstretched hand. When the younger boy takes it, he opens the cloth to find a single apple tart.

“When we were at Harrenhal, I tried to take one for your sister from the kitchens. Only one of the men caught me stealing, so they beat me black and blue.”

Rickon’s eyes are wide, and Hot Pie takes a seat next to him.

“But we met before that, way back in King’s Landing. And we weren’t even friends then, oh no." The memories flow through Hot Pie like a cold, riverland breeze. "She absolutely _hated_ me, and for good reason too. See, I tried to…”


	3. Small Counsels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion finds himself missing the days when he played the game across enemies.

When Tyrion enters the great hall, he finds Samwell Tarly already seated, a mountain of tomes and scrolls in front of him. The maester-that-never-was, as some people are fond of calling him, jumps at his entrance.

“Oh, no need to be frightened yet.” He takes a seat three chairs away, on the opposite side of the long table. He narrowly misses knocking over an inkpot, and after taking a few more seconds to get settled than planned, he shoots the younger man a sheepish smile. “The meeting hasn’t even started.”

Sam, however, continues to fidget, and doesn’t appear the least bit comforted.

“You and I both know I have every reason to worry, Lord Tyrion.”

It takes a moment for Tyrion to comprehend his words, a fact he is happy enough to attribute to the extra glass he indulged in before he went to bed last night. Alone, sadly. His hand stops above a sheaf of parchments, and a distant part of his mind notes the slight tremble to its fingers.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” he says, voice mercifully even. “Exactly what is it you are so determined to be worried about?”

Tyrion is sure he was aiming for something close to a jape, but he seems to miss by half a mile. Sam, bless his heart, answers seriously. “We all know my report is all anyone will care about. It’s bad enough I have to scrape for every little news, now I get to do it in front of an audience.”

The ‘surely not’ is already on his tongue before Tyrion is once again reminded by the _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingertips just above his left knee. His day is unraveling faster than he anticipated.

“And is there?” On the edge of his vision, he sees Sam freeze at the question, clearly not expecting it. Some measure of control returns to Tyrion’s veins at once again gaining the upper hand, no matter that his opponent is neither willing nor aware. “Any news?”

_“She just fell,” Daenerys tells him, half her face illuminated by a torch while the other half drowned in shadows. She has come to the crypts to tell them it’s over, that they’ve won. The Others have been defeated, and Arya Stark has saved them all._

_“What do you mean, she just_ fell _? Was she hurt?”_

_There is something in the dragon queen’s eyes Tyrion has never seen before, and deep inside, he knows, despite the cheering and hugging and sounds that can only be from victory, winter is far from over._

“That’s the problem. There simply isn’t.” Sam stares at the books on the table, but he doesn’t seem to find the answers he is looking for. “We don’t know anything and I’m not sure how long I can tell the Starks that before one of them finally breaks.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” Tyrion says with a scoff. Humor is good. He can do humor. “No one’s going to _break_.”

The look Sam gives him is far from anything humorous, and is instead just an inch away from sorrow. “Jon might.”

_“I don’t understand_.”

_Jon moves away from the maesters to face them. He is holding no sword and has long discarded all his armor, but Tyrion can see the way he is positioning his body between them and the bed._

_“How do you know her?” Grey eyes search Daenerys’s own before they land on Tyrion. “How do you know my sister?”_

Tyrion bites his tongue, hard, before he can say that Jon is, in fact, not a Stark. It will not be welcomed, and it wouldn’t even be the truth.

“Well,” he places both his elbows on the table, and gives Sam what he hopes is an encouraging smile, “I certainly hope your report is more comprehensive than what you just told me. Otherwise your worries will surely not be for naught.”

There’s a short pause, where Sam’s deep sigh moves a scroll over one of the thinner books.

“What about you?” There’s an uncharacteristic squint in Sam’s eyes, one Tyrion often finds on other lords the moment they remember that the Lannister dwarf is supposed to be smart. “What do _you_ think is the problem? What happened to Arya?”

_“So Missandei_ wasn’t _lying.”_

_He closes the door behind him and goes for the silver tray on the farthest corner. Tyrion finds himself loving the taste of wine even more after surviving the end of the world._

_“I thought for sure when she told me you look less than your perfect self that she’s finally gone mad, the way people not from Westeros go after spending more than a fortnight in our savage lands. An unkept Daenerys Stormborn? Aurochs would fly first.”_

_Dany looks away from the window and glares at him. Tyrion waits for the fire to return to her eyes, but finds nothing but flickering annoyance._

_“I’ve walked into a burning pyre. I’ve crossed the Red Waste in rags. If you think I’m only a queen when I’m wearing silks and braids in my hair, you are not as clever as you had people believe.”_

_“Exactly! You did all that to be here. To win. And you did.” There’s a bitter taste in Tyrion’s mouth, but his anger grows with every word. “You won the war, Dany. The throne is yours, yet you lock yourself in this chambers like you are under siege. Is this how you celebrate your victory?”_

_He places his cup on the table and walks towards the window._

_“Are you at least going to ask me for news?”_

_The spark he’s been waiting for makes itself known and suddenly, there is life in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes._

_“Is she awake?”_

“My lord?”

Tyrion blinks, and he finds himself staring at Sam’s hopeful eyes.

“I would be at the Great Keep right now if I have the faintest idea.” The admission leaves Tyrion’s lips easier than he thought. Still, he cannot find it in him to regret it, as some of his truth seem to prove successful in comforting the younger man.

“But don’t lose heart just yet. You know what they say about House Stark—”

He is interrupted by the sound of the hall’s double doors opening, and in comes Bran Stark with ---

“Lady Sansa.” Tyrion jumps out of his seat, both in acknowledgment and surprise at their new guests.

“Do continue, Lord Tyrion.” Bran’s gaze never leaves him even as his sister wheels him into the head of the table, the only place without a chair. Tyrion tears his eyes from Sansa to gape at the younger Stark. “You were saying something?”

The distance between the door and the table is immense, and the doors themselves are made of solid ironwood. Tyrion should’ve known it matters not for the Winged Wolf.

“Your Grace, Lord Tyrion was just—”

“I know, Sam.” Bran’s face is soft with kindness, but the air in the great hall almost crackles with the unspoken words. “I just wish to hear the end of the sentence. What _do_ they say about House Stark?”

_“Lady Stark.”_

_The young woman turns to him, and Tyrion wonders why it took him so long to realize. It’s always been in her eyes._

_“I’d caution you against addressing me by my family name, Lord Tyrion.”_

_She crosses the throne room with not a hint of hesitation in her stride. It is only when she stops just a few feet away from him that Tyrion notices her boots have yet to make a single sound._

_“And why is that, my lady?”_

_There is no smirk on her lips, but Tyrion feels the sentiment just the same._

_“I might just remember yours.”_

“Stories of fishwives, Your Grace.”

“Go on,” Bran urges with a slight curve to the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure the fishwives had a lot to say.”

Tyrion has a moment to wonder whether or not he is being mocked before Sansa places a gentle hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“Bran.”

“It’s all right, my lady.” Tyrion tries to smile but is met with an elegant brow. It is the only indication that he has any of Sansa’s attention.

To their right, Samwell watches with interest.

“They say that House Stark is unnaturally blessed by the old gods. And that the blood of the First Men that flows through your veins carry magic thought to be lost for thousands of years.”

If Bran Stark is surprised at his words, he doesn’t show it. “And you believe these tales?”

Tyrion scoffs before he can stop himself. “I’ve witnessed dead men rise, Your Grace. I’ve been on top of a dragon. If you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you won’t be so quick to dismiss fishwives. They seem to know quite a lot.”

“And just what exactly have you seen, Tyrion Lannister?”

At his words, Tyrion finds himself straightening. The hall is suddenly too small for him and the cripple king, who is looking at him and seeing far more than Tyrion can ever hope to understand.

“I’ve seen a king look beyond the mortal realm and commune with creatures thought only to be myths.”

Clear, blue eyes continue to hold Tyrion’s gaze. “And?”

“And…and I’ve met a she-wolf who walks through a snowstorm as naked as her nameday, who greets The Stranger himself like an old friend.”

There's a brief moment of silence, where none of them draw a single breath, before Tyrion sees Bran blink, and the spell is broken. Beside him, Sansa tenses, and she goes as still as ice before them.

“I’d best be on my way,” she tells her brother and king, voice hard. Before Tyrion can stop her, Sam beats him to it.

“Wouldn’t you like to be in the meeting, my lady?”

Sansa keeps her eyes on a spot near Sam’s books. “I am not part of this council.”

In his seat, Bran shifts, and Sansa finally looks at him. Tyrion can tell something has transpired between them, a silent battle of wills. Before he can determine who the victor is, both of the entrances to the hall are thrown open.

From the main door, Tyrion sees Daenerys, flanked by Missandei and Grey Worm on either side. From the door behind Sam and Sansa, walks Jon Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion begins, head dipping slightly in the direction of the dragon queen. “I’m glad you could join us.”

His words are sincere, if a little tinged with relief, but something settles in Dany’s face, a kind of warning that Tyrion acknowledges with a tight smile. When he turns to her nephew, he feels the smile drop.

“Prince Jon. I didn’t realize you’d be with us today.”

Jon is stiff as he gives them all a sharp nod. “Can we get on with this?”

Tyrion meets Sam’s eyes before they quickly turn to their own monarchs. When neither king nor queen protest from their end, they all take their seats.

Jon takes the chair to Sam’s right, and when he settles, it is only then that Tyrion notices Sansa is no longer in the hall. Before he can decide exactly how to feel about it, Bran speaks.

“Rickon has asked me to thank you for the book you gave him, Lady Missandei.” The King in the North offers the scribe an easy mile. “He said he was surprised at how many words from the Old Tongue one can find in Bastard Valyrian.”

The surprise on Missandei’s face quickly dissolves into a pleased smile. “I’m glad he liked it, Your Grace.”

“He really does, right Sam?”

Tyrion watches as Sam’s face turn the faintest shade of red. 

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Sam says, “but I’m afraid your kindness has made my days a little harder.”

Missandei smile drops. “Oh? How so?”

“The young lord now refuses to learn languages with me. He insists that Lady Missandei of Naath is the best, and therefore should be the _only_ , person to teach him.”

Tyrion’s mind reaches the most likely end to the exchange faster than anyone in the table, but he is powerless to stop it as Missandei’s smile returns, and she quickly shares a conspiratorial look with Grey Worm from across the table.

“Oh I’m not so sure about that,” the scribe declares, eyes sparkling with warmth. “I know of at least one other person who can best me in languages on any given day.”

In an instant, her words snuff out what little joy the moment has managed to build. Tyrion watches as Missandei freezes. Beside her, Daenerys’s face shutters.

“Any missives, Sam?”

There is no room for argument in the queen’s voice, and both Tyrion and Sam know it.

“One raven from Highgarden, Your Grace.” Sam lifts a scroll, but reads the words from one of his journals. “Willas Tyrell has expressed willingness to help the North and the other kingdoms in whatever way the Reach is able to. But he’s afraid they might be ill-prepared for winter, as snow has not fallen on their lands in generations.”

“Bran and I have discussed that,” Jon speaks, visibly startling the rest of the council. “We realized that the best people to assist us in this matter are the Free Folk.”

“And will they help?”

For the first time since he stepped into the hall, Jon meets his aunt’s gaze.

“Will the Free Folk assist us?” Dany repeats.

For Tyrion, it feels like a lifetime before Jon nods.

“One realm, Your Grace.” Something soft settles in his eyes. “The Free Folk will help us.”

Something untangles in Tyrion’s chest, and he releases a breath he was not aware he had been holding. As Sam reads the rest of the messages, he absent-mindedly takes a piece of parchment and lets the quill wander along with his thoughts. Tyrion’s mind begins to settle, now that he is certain the rest of the council can continue with more ease.

_“One realm.”_

_Even as Daenerys Targaryen bristles, there is a spark in her eyes. Tyrion thinks it can be fascination, or awe. If he digs deep enough, he might even call it reverence._

_“What are you saying?” The queen takes three strides closer to her opponent, but the she-wolf doesn’t so much as blink. “You think the North will not bend the knee?”_

_“Does it matter?” Grey meets purple, and Tyrion has to wonder which woman frightens him more._

_“I was promised seven kingdoms. My_ birthright _is seven kingdoms.”_

_Tyrion can see that Dany is far from angry, but he knows she has decided that she will not lose this argument. She is a stubborn woman, his queen._

_Unfortunately for both of them, as is the grey-eyed phantom with them._

_“Seven Kingdoms,” The lady closes the distance between them and gently takes the arm of the dragon queen, “or one realm?”_

_Tyrion watches the fight leave Dany almost immediately._

_“We have to start seeing it less as divided lands and more as one people, Dany. It is the only way we can survive what is to come. One people. One realm.”_

“Yes, Your Grace. In fact, the raven came from Arianne Martell herself.”

Dany seeks Tyrion eyes, before nodding for Sam to continue. “And what does it say?”

There is a moment where Sam hesitates, and Tyrion sees his gaze lock with Jon’s before he continues.

“It says the Princess of Dorne will be riding to King’s Landing with the rest of her court. She intends to discuss matters with you in person, and she…well, she…”

Tyrion feels Dany’s agitation like it is his own. “She what?”

“Go on, Sam,” the queen urges.

“And she expects Her Grace to be in her own castle when she arrives.”

The whole table trembles as Grey Worm jumps in his seat, bristling like a cat.

“How dare her presume—”

“It’s all right,” Dany interrupts her commander, her hand on his elbow feather-light. “The princess’s journey will be a long one. I will write back to her myself, and hope our correspondence will make her travel more bearable.”

Tyrion sets his quill, feeling the weight of the queen’s words setting on his shoulders. When he looks to the head of the table, he finds Bran with a knowing look on his eyes, his attention now on Sam.

“Are those the rest of the letters?”

Tyrion looks to the sheaf of papers that has been separated from the rest of the scrolls. That, along with how Sam refuses to meet Jon’s eyes, fill Tyrion with a sharp sense of dread.

“There are still others, Your Grace. Letters from other parts of the realm, and some…some from even as far as Qarth.”

Bran’s voice is even as he speaks. “What about, Sam?”

“Prayers, Your Grace.” Despite his obvious discomfort, Tyrion can see a certain kind of peace filling Sam’s eyes. “And words of gratitude. Some are queries, but most are— well, most wish to inform us about the pilgrims.”

Tyrion isn’t sure if he heard the last few words right. “I’m sorry, what? Pilgrims?”

“Yes, my lord.” Sam lifts a hand as though to touch the scrolls, but stops himself at the last second. “It seems many people are riding for Winterfell. They all wish to see Lady Arya.”

Tyrion sees Bran opening his mouth to say something, but whatever it can be is interrupted by Jon’s voice.

“Is that it, then? Arianne Martell is the last matter?”

Sam’s nod is a little hesitant, and his eyes flicker between king and prince. “Well…yes, but like I told you before, Jon, the ravens never stop coming, they—”

“My mind hasn’t changed, Sam.”

“But Jon, these pilgrims _will_ be coming, and—”

“And what do these _pilgrims_ wish to accomplish, hmm?” The thin shroud of hostility Jon has worn from the moment he arrived is starting to suffocate the room, and Tyrion watches with morbid fascination as the man he once called friend turn to every soul around the table with a look that is nothing short of betrayal. “Do they fancy themselves to be blessed men if they survive their journey here? And what exactly do they hope to find in Winterfell? Someone to thank, or a relic of the war they once refused to believe was real?”

Tyrion sees Sam trying and failing to calm Jon. The great hall can only witness the rage, now so plain before them.

“I’d like to see any one of you _try_ to take a stranger to see her. I _dare_ you.” Jon moves his chair backwards, the scraping sound of the movement only giving his words more weight. Tyrion follows the prince’s gaze as it’s pinned to every single member of the council, before landing on the dragon queen. If he fancies himself to be even more mad than he already is, Tyrion will swear he can feel flames in the air. “Unless they can tell me how to wake her, they will not set foot anywhere near this castle.”

And just like that, Jon rises from his seat and storms out in a blur of dark robes. With a clumsy bow to both Bran and Daenerys, Sam follows suit.

When Jon leaves, so does the strength in Tyrion’s limbs. As he melts back into his seat, his eyes land on the parchment in front of him. The ache in his chest grows sharper, as he watches the lines of his own making take the shape of a single, familiar flower.

A rose.


End file.
